Episode 90 Fiesta English
by KayDee35
Summary: TV episode with added scenes to make it a good read. Script consulted as well.


**Fiesta**

It was shortly after breakfast. John Cannon, Manolito Montoya and Sam Butler were standing in the stable, watching silently as Buck groomed and then saddled his horse. They would not have got a word in anyway. Buck was lecturing them on Mexican fiestas: when they took place, why they took place, how the preparations were done and so on. Sam suspected that Buck only talked so that nobody would ask him any awkward questions. As Buck went to get his saddle, he finally came to the point. "These fiestas have a special religious meaning behind them. You know, honouring some saint or another. I mean, that's what it's all about."

"Of course, they wrap it up with singing and dancing and a whole lot of drinking that goes on for a week or so," the foreman said, his tone dead serious. Mano had to smile.

Buck also began to grin. "Well, Sam, I don't see any harm in that. Since this is not the main reason." He laughed when he saw the disbelieving faces of the others and went to Big John. "Brother John, you think you'll be able to manage without me?" he asked for the sake of politeness.

"Oh, I think the High Chaparral can struggle along somehow without you," the rancher quipped.

Buck nodded, glad that his brother did not try to put any obstacles in his way. "All right." He took his saddle and went back to Rebel.

"How long do you figure to be gone, Buck?" Big John wanted to know.

"Well, two days to that little border town," Buck said slowly as he heaved the saddle onto his horse. "Then the fiesta town is another three days south of that." For the return trip he would probably need twice as long. With a heck of a hangover after a week of celebrating he would not be able to ride very fast.

"And that's where the timetable gets lost," Big John spoke up seriously.

Buck turned, giving his brother a wary look. John's voice was as expressionless as his face. Buck smilingly went to the rancher. "That's the truth, brother John. Now, this town where the fiesta is at. It takes so long - by the time it's over, by the time you get out of hospital, by the time you get out of jail - the fiesta for the next year has already started." Buck shrugged. When his brother finally gave him an indulgent look, he grinned. "And there ain't no point in leaving then."

The men laughed.

"Hey, Buck," Mano called. "Maybe I should accompany you, my friend."

Buck turned to his best friend and lifted a finger in warning. "Mano, no no no. We agreed that this fiesta wasn't big enough for both of us."

Manolito looked at his brother-in-law regretfully and let out a huff of frustration. "You are right. I have no complaints. This is your fiesta. After all, we cut the cards fair and square and you won."

Buck nodded. "I won fair and square, I did." It had not been fair, Buck thought, but Mano would never find out. In this case, the end really justified the means. He thought back to the evening before. Mano had told him about the fiesta.

"Hey, Buck," Mano had said. "I have heard of a fiesta in a tiny village three days' ride south of Nogales."

Buck had looked up in alarm. He had suddenly had a picture in his mind which he did not want to become reality. Three rurales were standing under a tree. The first one was testing a branch. Satisfied that it was strong enough, he tied a rope to it. Mano, a little wobbly on his feet, was standing under the branch, his hands tied behind his back and kept in check with his own revolver by the second rurales. Mackadoo was lying unmoving beside them on the ground. The rurales had shot the horse out from under Mano and had arrested him. The third of the rurales was putting the noose around Mano's neck and pulled him up. Although Buck had followed Manolito, he came too late. All he could do was bring his best friend home and bury him.

Buck had tried to ignore the picture. He had wanted to dismiss it as exaggeration, but the premonition had not left him. Buck had hidden his concern and had laughed. "Mano if this village is so small, they can't have more than one saloon girl. And where would that leave you when I enjoy myself with her, hm?"

"You are right," Manolito had nodded. "The fiesta is too small for both of us. I will ride alone."

"I did not mean to suggest that." Buck had made a disappointed face and had thought for a moment. "I tell you what. Why don't we let the cards decide?"

Manolito's eyes had flashed. Buck wanted a little competition? That made things interesting. He had begun to smile. "You mean the first one to run out of money will stay home?"

Buck had nodded. "Sam, Joe," he had called to the ranch hands not on duty. "Do you fancy a game of poker?"

The two had been more than eager. In no time they had the game going. In the first half Buck had lost and had torn his hair in desparation. Mano, on the other hand, had basked in his success. He had even gone so far as to leave the game for a few minutes to get a new bottle of tequila from the house. Buck meanwhile had taken the time to talk the Butler brothers into cooperating with him.

"Sam, Joe," Buck had said hurriedly once Mano had been out of the door. "You gotta help me. I need to win the game." He had stood up and had walked restlessly to the window.

Sam had grinned. "That's no way to treat a friend." He had shaken his head in mock-sternness.

"The fiesta is not important," Buck had interrupted the foreman. "I have to win the game. Are you going to help me?"

The Butler brothers had exchanged puzzled looks. The game was more important than the prize? Joe had nodded his head knowingly. Sure it was. If Buck won the game, he would have both. "If you reimburse us for our losses, we'll do it," he had said with a sly grin. That would show them what was important to Buck.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll pay you double. But if you don't decide soon, I'll have to think of something else." Buck had run his hand through his hair nervously. He had spied Mano leaving the house with a new bottle of tequila and hurrying back towards the bunkhouse. His face grave, Buck had returned to the table and had sat back down. Sam and Joe had exchanged another surprised look. Something was wrong here.

"Is this to do with Mexico?" Sam had asked.

Mano had closed the door behind him. "What is to do with Mexico?" he had asked as he had approached the table.

Buck's eyes had narrowed. He had flashed the foreman a warning look, then had grinned innocently at his best friend. "Oh, we were just wondering. Mexico is such a large country. How can there be villages that are so tiny that they are already overcrowded when only two strangers come visiting?" he had said without batting an eye. Manolito had looked at him blankly.

Joe had yawned. "Can we play now?"

"Sure." Sam had given Buck a curt nod and had grabbed the cards.

Buck smiled, lost in thought. He had won and had paid them. It had almost cleaned him out, but of course that would not stop him from riding to the fiesta. Someone always bought a round. And if he worked one evening as a bouncer, he would have enough money the next day to continue celebrating.

"Except I was the one who told you about the fiesta in the first place," Manolito interrupted Buck's thoughts.

"Yeah, sure," Buck grinned at him. "But that's how it was, Mano."

"Well, I'm beginning to see things a little clearer now," Manolito said thoughtfully. Buck gave him a wary look. Had his brother-in-law caught on?

"In reality, you are the true looser when we cut the cards," Mano continued.

Buck frowned in confusion. "Oh yeah?"

Mano nodded emphatically. "Yes. Actually, now I begin to realise that the man who rides to every fiesta he hears about - and I'm sorry to say this Buck." He raised a hand in apology. "That man will never amount to much, my friend."

"Mano, that all depends on what you're aiming at," Buck replied with a shrug.

Manolito nodded knowingly. "Fiestas and frolicking?"

Buck grinned at him. "Fiestas and frolicking," he repeated. Mano laughed. Buck went to Rebel and took the reins. "And I must admit that's two of the things that I do best," he stated with satisfaction.

"I dare not disagree," Manolito told him. He suddenly made a sullen face. Too bad his objections had not worked. He would have been only too happy to ride with his best friend to the fiesta. Sure, he could ride to Tucson or Tubac if he wanted to have some fun in the meantime, but the two of them together would certainly have a lot more fun than each by himself.

Buck led Rebel out of the stable, mounted and raised a hand in parting. "Brother John."

"Take care," nodded his brother.

Sam gave Rebel a pat on the behind. "All right."

Buck rode off without a backward glance. His vest fluttered in the wind. Those remaining behind watched him go from the entrance of the stable.

"What's the matter boss?" Sam asked in confusion when he saw the rancher's face. "You look kinda sad."

Big John nodded towards the figure vanishing in the distance. "Buck is the last of a breed. Someday he'll ride off and never make it back home again."

Manolito frowned and threw a suddenly worried look after his best friend. Buck was just - free. Somehow like none of the rest of them could be. As free as the land. But with every ranch that got carved out of the wilderness, with every town that got built, the land became a bit less wild and free. Granted, it was still far from tamed, but one day it would be tamed. And when that day came, there would be no place any more for men like Buck.

But not yet, Mano hoped. Buck would return. Still, he felt lonely all of a sudden. John had to feel it as well. Manolito knew there were only two ways to escape that loneliness. He could either get married, have children and accept the usual obligations that came with a family. Or he could ride with Buck and maintain their friendship, without any obligations. Mano made a mental note to talk to Buck as soon as his brother-in-law returned. If Buck would not let him come along voluntarily, Mano would follow his best friend until Buck either accepted him as companion or threw in the towel and returned to the High Chaparral.

Buck rode into Nogales late in the afternoon. At the marketplace he dismounted and looked around. A few stalls with food and textiles were scattered over the plaza. Half a dozen cackling chickens were running around free. Mexico was a poor country, and barter was still common. The peons had little money. Most of it was probably saved for the taxes, Buck suspected.

Rebel meanwhile sought out the well. Buck tugged at the reins and pulled his horse away. "Ain't you got no manners?" he whispered. "The villagers got to drink from this water. Come on, I'll get you some later. Just a minute." He took off his hat, bent down and drank himself. Beside him, Rebel dipped his nose into the cool water again. "Please? Come on, now. Just a minute," Buck admonished his errant horse. He filled his hat and held it out to Rebel. "Here. That's better, isn't it?" he asked, but Rebel went to the well again. "No, take it from here." Buck refilled his hat a few times, until the gelding had quenched its thirst, too. Then he tugged Rebel towards the stable opposite the cantina. "Over here."

"Buenas tardes, señor," the stable owner, a spry old man with white hair, greeted him.

"Buenas tardes," Buck replied, handing the man the reins. "Take good care of him. We got a long way to go."

The man nodded quietly. "I will take good care of him, señor."

Hearing jubilant shouts coming from the cantina, Buck looked in the direction of the building. "What's going on there? Cock fight?"

The stable owner shook his head and looked down. "No, señor," he answered flatly. "No cockfights."

Buck hesitated a moment, then took off his vest and handed it over along with a coin. "I leave that here, too. Gracias."

"Gracias," the man repeated and led Rebel into the stable.

Buck went straight to the cantina. He had not eaten since breakfast. It was time that he got something into his stomach. Again he heard the shouts as he entered. In one corner of the cantina, the tables and chairs had been moved aside. The audience stood in a tight circle around the makeshift arena. Buck spied a white jacket for the fraction of a second but could not see anything more. Passing the audience, he went on to the bar.

The bartender nodded to him and put away his towel with which he had polished the glasses. "Señor?"

"Tequila", Buck ordered. He would have preferred whisky, but he had learned a long time ago that Mexico's national beverage was tequil. The cantinas south of the border did not seem to stock a single drop of whisky. The bartender put a bottle and a glass on the counter in front of Buck.

"Hey, what's going on over there?" Buck asked as he poured himself a drink.

"Boy fights," the man answered curtly.

"What?" Buck looked at him in astonishment, thinking he must have misheard.

"Boy fights," the bartender said again in annoyance, giving the gringo a sullen look.

"What?" Buck repeated incredulously. He turned towards the arena. A teenager was stumbling out of the circle and banged his head on a table. Buck winced as he heard the skull connect with the wood. The boy fell under the table and lay there unmoving. He looked quite lean. Now Buck spied the second fighter, a somewhat older boy who in contrast was quite well fed. The winner made to follow his opponent but was held back by an American wearing a chequered shirt.

Another man, a Mexican, went to the lean boy lying under the table. "What's the matter?" he asked in Spanish, but the boy seemed too exhausted to move.

"The gringos are fighting the big one," the bartender whispered in Buck's ear.

Buck nodded imperceptibly. So the gringo in the chequered shirt was the owner of the well-fed fighter. And judging from his relaxed attitude, the boy had rarely lost a fight.

"It's over. Looks like we win again," the gringo told the Mexican who had gone to the smaller boy, thus confirming Buck's guess.

Tugging at his boy's arm, Homero stubbornly shook his head. "It's not over."

"You keep going on this way, and my boy's gonna kill him," the American grinned.

Buck closed his eyes but stayed put at the bar. He knew he was outnumbered. He would have to wait until the bandidos rode homewards to try and free the boy.

"Get up," Homero barked. "You're not here to sleep." Taking the boy by the legs, he pulled him out from under the table and pushed him back into the circle.

Buck took a step towards Homero, but the bartender grasped his arm. "You better not interfere, señor," he warned.

Buck blinked in surprise. He had not expected anyone in here being concerned about his welfare. He leaned back against the bar. "I'm not all that eager to get people's backs up," Buck told the bartender. "But there are some things you can't stand by and watch."

The fight was on again. Blow after blow was raining down onto the smaller boy. He had barely enough strength left to maintain his cover, let alone to fight back. Buck straightened and took a deep breath. The bartender touched his arm again. Buck leaned back once more as a sign that he would listen.

"Homero José is a bad man, and he has lost much money today. It would not be wise to interfere now when he is loosing again," the bartender said quickly.

"Come on, defend yourself at least. Go get him. I'm losing a fortune here," they heard Homero say, and his fighter showed a little more enthusiasm.

"Come on. Yes, boy, yes," the men cheered the fighters on.

Buck shook his head. He poured himself another drink, counted the men and tried to assess the situation. He was alone. He could not possibly take on twenty men. Even if Mano had accompanied him, they would still have been outnumbered. The smaller boy went down again. If they did not break the fight up soon, he would be beaten to death. Buck took his glass and drank. On the other hand, he thought, it was not so bad that he was alone. This way, he got only himself into danger. He took another sip - and put his glass down with a decisive thump. He drew his revolver and shot once in the air. Startled, the men looked around. Buck stepped into the circle, pushed the older boy aside and let his withering gaze travel over the audience. Some of the men bowed their heads in shame, he noticed with satisfaction.

"Now, maybe I don't know what you folks call fun," Buck began quietly, his face red with anger. "Maybe I don't know what kind of wages are going on here. And maybe it ain't none of my business. But this boy has lost." He pointed to the little one lying on the ground. Then he determinedly looked at Homero. "He ain't gonna fight no more today."

The owner of the well-fed fighter came to stand beside Buck in the circle. "The man is right. The fight is over and we won. We'll be collecting the bets and ride back to the ranch."

His men nodded. "Yeah." They grinningly went to the bar where the bartender counted out the winnings.

Buck, training his revolver on Homero, knelt beside the downed fighter. "Boy, you all right?" he asked slowly to give the Mexican child a chance to understand him. The boy turned his head back and forth, moaning a little, and closed his eyes in exhaustion. His face was sporting three huge bruises. Buck knew that the upper body would be virtually littered with bruises, even though the jacket he wore had cushioned the blows to some extent.

A gringo with a black patch over his left eye and a half-empty bottle of tequila in his hand entered the circle and looked down on the boy.

"You better hurry on, old man," Buck hissed through gritted teeth. The man straightened as best he could and walked away unsteadily.

Buck gently took the arm of the young fighter. "Can you get up? Easy, boy." The little fighter put his hand on Buck's arm, and Buck lifted him gently to his feet. Putting his arm around the boy's shoulders, Buck led him to the bar where he finally holstered his gun.

"Water. Get me some water," Buck told the bartender.

The man poured him a glass. "Look, I don't want any trouble."

"Then stay out of it," Buck said quietly. He held the glass to the boy's lips. "It will do you good."

When the little fighter had drunk, he put his arms on the counter, rested his head on them and closed his eyes. Buck put a damp cloth on the boy's neck, exchanging a concerned look with the bartender.

Homero meanwhile waylaid the owner of the well-fed fighter at the cantina's entrance. "Señor, uh, señor. You have been very lucky today, right?" he began hesitantly.

"That I have," the American grinned, poking Homero's belly with his index finger. "Try feeding your kids next time before you fight them."

"I would," Homero said in his whiniest voice. "But I'm a poor man. You know that."

The American made a scornful face. Homero wore a torn yellow shirt, that was true. But his belly underneath it was round as a ball. "You're a thief and would cut my throat to get your money back," he said harshly.

Homero laughed. "Oh, no no no," he protested, looking back to his men as if feeling embarrassed. "I would never do that."

The gringo smiled at him with an expression which said that he knew better.

"Look, you have many boys that you can fight," Homero finally let the cat out of the bag. "Now that I am without money to feed mine, I thought maybe you would like to buy him." He pointed towards the bar.

Buck, who had heard every word, turned around slowly.

The American threw Homero a surprised look. The bandit laughed. A moment later the gringo put a hand on Homero's shoulder, shaking his head. "What would I do with him? He already proved he can't fight." Seeing Homero's face fall in disappointment, he turned to leave. If the bandido had thought that he would mess with the stranger, he had thought wrong. He had heard about a man clad all in black. That hombre was not to be trifled with. Rumours had it that he was even friends with Johnny Ringo, the fastest gunslingers of all times.

"Hey, cowboy," Buck called.

The American stopped and turned around. "You're talking to me?"

Buck had taken the cloth from the boy's neck to wet again and was holding it clearly visible in both hands in front of him. "Let me get this straight," he began. "You mean this kid, these little boys, don't belong to nobody like an uncle or a father?"

The gringo shook his head. "No. They're orphans, mostly." A grin swept over his face. "There are plenty of them around. This country seems to always be in one kind of war or another." He turned back to the door.

"So you just buy them and sell them like they were some kind of live stock," Buck said quietly.

The gringo stopped again and looked back blankly. "Who else is gonna take care of them?"

Buck lowered his eyes.

"Land around these parts is poor, the farmers even poorer," the American continued. "What the patrons don't take away from the peons, the armies and the ruales do. They are lucky to be fed."

"Lucky?" Buck took a breath. A moment later he shrugged. "Well, I guess it all depends on what you happen to think is lucky."

The American took a few steps towards Buck. "Hey, saddle tramp. Are you looking for some kind of trouble?" He heard rustling behind him, footsteps that departed in a hurry. The Mexicans fled from the cantina. Buck watched them go for a moment, then smiled ever so slightly. The number of opponents had considerably decreased, and he knew now that four men were with Homero.

"Not at all. I was just wondering," Buck quietly told his fellow country man. He put the towel on the counter, turned his back on the man and calmly refilled his glass. Suddenly understanding Buck's strategy, the man gave Buck an admiring look. Waving to his men, he left.

"It's a good thing you didn't go against him, señor," the bartender told Buck. "He has many friends. All bandits."

Homero now drummed up his own men and also went to the door, waving to his little fighter. "Hey, Beto. You come on over here."

Beto looked to Buck and did not move from the spot. Buck turned around, his left hand on his gun belt, his right hand on the counter.

Homero took a few steps towards the bar, impatiently pointing his index fingers at the boy. "I said get over here, you filthy little bastard."

Beto began to move towards Homero. He had barely taken two steps when Buck suddenly pushed him back. Beto looked up questioningly. Homero gave Buck an annoyed look.

Buck put his arm around Beto's shoulders. "Which one of you does he belong to?" he asked the bandits quietly.

Homero looked to his men who bowed their heads. "He belongs to me," he said with conviction.

"Are you his papa?" Buck asked, looking at Beto, then back at Homero. "His uncle? His brother?" Homero shook his head. "Well, I'm hoping you ain't his sister."

Homero turned to his men and shot them a warning look. He had heard a giggle. "Listen," he then said angrily to Buck. "This boy, he belongs to me."

Buck silently and determinedly put his hand on his revolver.

"Por favor, señor," the bartender spoke up desperately from behind his counter. "There has been enough trouble. Please settle your differences outside."

Buck nodded and reassuringly held up a hand. "All right." He looked at Beto. "Boy, are you related to any one of them there? I mean, is any of them your daddy, your uncle or your brother?" he asked slowly.

Beto silently shook his head, looking Homero's men straight in the eyes.

"Beto, you come to me this minute," Homero snarled.

The boy once again looked questioningly at Buck.

"You don't have to go with him. You can stay with me if you want, boy," Buck told him.

"You know, Americano, as you can see, there are five of us and only one of you," Homero remarked sardonically. Buck wordlessly took his revolver from his gun belt and put it on the counter. Homero looked confused. After a moment, he furiously turned back to his little fighter. "Beto, you come here right now, or I'll give you such a beating that you'll walk with a crooked back for the rest of your life."

The boy winced. Buck looked at Homero adamantly, bowed his head slightly in Beto's direction, and the boy leaned against the counter behind Buck.

"Listen, the boy belongs to me, understand?" Homero shouted.

Tears springing to his eyes, Beto shook his head.

Buck decided that enough was enough. "You have no more business here," he told the bandits firmly, straightening up. "It's time that you leave."

But Homero stubbornly shook his head. "You're making a big mistake," he said tightly.

Suddenly exuding an air of danger, Buck cocked his revolver and pointed it at Homero.

Raising his hands, the bandit turned to his men. "Get out," he told them, glad now to have an excuse to leave. He liked to watch others fight, but he did not like to fight himself. And certainly not the stranger who suddenly looked like the devil. Clad all in black and with eyes like fire. Homero barely kept from crossing himself.

Buck cocked his head and listened. He knew that Homero would not simply give up the boy. The bandit had started the argument because he had believed that he could intimidate Buck. And now he had to prove himself to his men.

Outside, where no gun was aimed at his well-fed belly any more, Homero breathed easier. "You stand guard behind the house. Go," Buck heard the bandit say. Then the sounds of footsteps could be heard. Buck ventured a careful look out of the window and saw Homero wave to his remaining men. "You two come with me."

The three of them hid behind the stairs of the stone building opposite the cantina. It was the town hall which was always closed in the afternoon. When the noise ceased, Buck finally put his revolver back into the holster and turned to the bar.

"Homero José is a bad hombre. By taking the boy you have humiliated him," the bartender said thoughtfully.

"Well, I figured that much," Buck admitted somewhat sheepishly. He gave the bartender an open look. "But I do appreciate your concern, amigo. What I want yo to do right now is get something for us to eat." When the man nodded, Buck went on, "I got a little money here. I want you to find a villager who will take proper car of this boy."

The bartender shook his head firmly. "There's no one, señor." Buck looked up questioningly. "No one in this village," the Mexican explained to the gringo.

Beto looked up anxiously. Even if someone around here would take him in, Homero would come to get him as soon as the gringo had left. No peon was strong enough to take on Homero's bandidos. He knew that for a fact.

"But there must be someone," Buck said incredulously. "Where is your church? Your priest, your padre?"

"Our padre died three months ago," the bartender answered dejectedly.

Buck sighed. "But I'm going to the fiesta. What am I supposed to do with him?"

The bartender shrugged. "Perhaps you should give him back."

Buck gave the boy a once-over. He must be about twelve, Buck guessed, but he was underfed. He probably had to work a lot and got little to eat. A boy his age was always hungry. Maybe he could earn a few cents with additional work, but it looked like even that was not enough.

"Gringo", Homero called out from behind the stone stairs and interrupted Buck's thoughts. In the catina, Buck straightened up. "Gringo, there is no way you can come out. Send out the boy and maybe we'll let you live. Listen, the boy belongs to me."

Beto chanced a look at his protector who looked straight ahead, his face rigid. If he returned now, he would get the promised beating. One day, Homero would beat him to death. Or he would die in a fight, probably soon. He felt that he could not hold out much longer.

"Give him the boy, señor," the bartender urged Buck. "He means nothing to you. Why fight?"

Buck looked at the man thoughtfully and took a deep breath. "Well, maybe it's because I don't like people telling me what to do," he growled. Then he threw Beto a quick glance. "Maybe it's 'cause I don't believe one human being has the right to own another."

Outside the cantina, behind the staircase, Homero spat in disgust when he got no answer from the gringo.

"Give me a bowl of water, a washcloth and a towel," Buck meanwhile told the bartender. The man brought him the requested items, then went to the kitchen to cook the food. Buck began to gently wash and dry Beto's face. Then he helped the boy out of the jacket, washed his arms and upper body and examined the bruises. When he had put on the jacket again, Beto was about to open his pants. Buck clasped the boy's hands in his, stopping him. His face darkened. Beto had not limped when Buck had led him out of the circle. "Are you hurt somewhere below the belt?" Buck asked quietly.

The boy shook his head.

"Then there is no need to look," Buck said. He cautiously put an arm around the boy's shoulders, and for the first time in his life, Beto felt safe. He went with Buck to the table just as the bartender brought them their meal. Buck put half his ration on Beto's plate. The boy needed the meal more than he did.

Homero had meanwhile come out from behind the staircase and had taken cover with his two cronies at the well. "Gringo, hey, gringo," he shouted. "We'll give you another chance. Send out the boy, and we'll let you live."

For how long, Buck thought cynically. Sipping at a cup of coffee - the only dessert he would get - he stood and went to the door.

"You better come out now, gringo," the bandit repeated.

"Once that fella gets hold of an idea, he don't let go," Buck muttered, shaking his head.

The bartender came to him, taking up position at the other side of the door. "Señor, you cannot stay here," he said desperately. "It is in this cantina I make a living for my wife and children. If you stay here, they will burn my cantina to the ground."

Buck drank his coffee in silence, watching Beto eat - and jumped, startled, as one of the bandits shot the cup out of his hand. While more bullets were flying around them, Buck and the bartender crawled under Beto's table. Beto, however, did not seem to notice.

Buck crawled out from under the table when the bandits stopped shooting. They had probably realised that they were wasting their ammunition, Buck thought grimly.

"You put so much value on the life of this worthless boy," the bartender rounded on Buck. "As you can see, even now he knows no fear of death. Just that his stomach is filled."

Beto calmly continued to eat. He did not care if they shot him. But if they did not and his protector took him with him, he was going to need all the energy he could muster so that he would not be a burden to the man and would not be left behind after all.

"Hey, gringo," Homero shouted impatiently from the well again. "We will not wait much longer."

The bartender went back to the door in a crouch. Buck glanced at Beto who gave him a quick look in return and then continued to shovel food into his mouth.

"How is the food? Good? Bueno? "Buck asked softly.

The barkeeper turned around with a sneer. "He has no answer for your, señor. Only the rich have good and bad food. For the peon, he only has enough to fill his stomach to keep him alive."

Buck carefully sat down on the chair beside Beto, expecting every moment that more bullets would chase him back under the table. "Well, boy, it seems the general opinion around here is that you ain't worth too much of an effort," he said calmly.

"Beto, come out now, or you will die with the gringo," they heard Homero's angry shout from outside. Beto looked up, and for the first time Buck saw fear in the boy's eyes.

The bartender came to Buck. "Is that what you want?" he asked.

"Well, I reckon this is entirely up to you. This thing has gone further than we both expected," Buck told Beto.

The boy looked at him in silence, waiting.

"Do you want to go outside there with Homero José? Yes or no?" Buck asked quietly.

Beto slowly shook his head.

Buck nodded. "Well, it looks like we're gonna be stuck together for a while."

The bartender knocked nervously on the table. "No, señor, you cannot stay here," he repeated desperately.

Buck stood up angrily. "I didn't take it we could," he shot back. He went to the door and looked outside. He saw Homero dunking his head in the well. Then his gaze wandered to the stable in the background. Buck closed one eye and measured the distance. "If we stay here, we're gonna be cut to pieces. The question is how we can get out of here," he muttered. He walked to the stairs, looked to the upper floor and shook his head. They could not escape over the roof. Beto was too weak and could slip too easily. Sighing, Buck went to the back room. Through the window's wrought-iron bars he saw a bandit lying in wait for them. "Yeah, just what I figured," he muttered sullenly. Buck went back to Beto and leaned his elbows on the table. "Boy, looks like we're gonna have to make a run for it. We have to get to my horse, understand?"

Beto nodded. "Sí. Run."

Buck sat down, folding his hands on the table. "Well, since we're gonna be together. Do you got a name, boy?" he asked.

"Sí, Beto," the boy told him curtly.

Nothing else? Just Beto? Buck inwardly shrugged his shoulders. "That's a nice name," he said. "My name is Buck. Buck Cannon."

"Buck," Beto repeated with a strange gleam in his eyes. For a moment it looked like he was about to throw his arms around Buck's neck. But then he just took up his fork again and picked the last crumbs from the plate.

"Yeah, well, don't get all worked up about it," Buck sighed. He took the broken cup, turned it around in his hands, then put it back on the table and went to the door. The boy followed him a moment later.

"It's been almost an hour," one of the bandits muttered. Since the gringo had not yet fired a single shot, he was sitting with his cronies and his boss in front of the fountain.

Homero had just ducked his head into the water to cool off. The sun was shining brightly, and there was no shade in the market place. At the critical words he jumped up. "I know how long it is," he hissed.

"He's still in the saloon. The sun will go down soon," the man warned. If it were up to him, they would have given up the siege and had ridden home. But if he suggested that again, the boss would lecture him. For a whole month.

Homero jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the cantina. "You want to go after the gringo?" The Bandit ducked his head and looked down. "Then shut up," his boss snapped.

Homero had just calmed down when shots rang out behind the cantina. The bandits immediately ducked back behind the well. They saw the bartender running from the house, waving his arms like a windmill. "They are escaping out the back," the man called, but Homero did not move from the spot. "The gringo and the boy are escaping out the back," the bartender shouted at the top of his lungs.

Homero rose at last. "Vamonos," he told his men. They ran after the bartender. As soon as they had passed the cantina, Buck and Beto sprinted across the square towards the stable. But Homero was more suspicious than Buck had hoped. At the corner of the cantina he turned around, saw them and shot at them. Buck dived behind the well for cover and returned the fire. The bandits, too, were forced to take cover. They raced back to the town hall. The other two men who had lain in wait behind the cantina joined up with them there.

Buck looked up, startled. Beto had stopped beside the well, providing an excellent target. Buck pulled him roughly into cover. "Boy, you want to get your head shot off?" he snarled.

"I'm not afraid," Beto said quietly.

"Not afraid, huh?" Buck shook his head. "You could get yourself killed."

The boy gave him him a sad but determined look. That was exactly what he had aimed for, Buck realised. He looked grimly towards Homero, fired a few more times, then looked back at Beto.

"Boy, we got to get to that stable. Let's go." Buck ran to the tree in front of the stable. When he realised that he had arrived there alone, he looked back. Beto had stayed at the well. "Come on." Buck waved to him, but the boy did not move. Buck ran back to him, shooting non-stop, and turned to Beto. "Look, boy, I know you've had it tough, but we all got our problems. Now, come on." He grasped Beto by the jacket, and this time they both made it to the tree. Buck stopped there to reload his revolver. At that moment four men in elegant grey uniforms rode into town.

"Homero, the rurales," one of the bandits said in the middle of the shooting, pointing in the direction of the riders.

Homero elbowed his other two cronies in the ribs. "Stop," he hissed.

The men looked up in confusion and froze. Hastily putting away their guns, they lounged on the staircase. Visibly nervous, they played the good citizens. After all, they did not want their wonderfully free life to end by being pressed into service.

Beto, too, had seen the riders. He tucked at Buck's sleeve. "Rurales," he said in relief.

Buck looked up. "Yeah, the rurales, boy," he commented in amazement, coming out with Beto from behind the tree and sitting down on the rim of the well. "At least no one is shooting at us any more," he said, holstering his gun.

The rurales officer turned to one of his his deputies. "See what the shooting was about. I will talk to the gringo." The man nodded and rode towards the staircase. The officer rode on with his remaining two men to the tree in front of the stable. There he dismounted and went to the well. He barely refrained from rolling his eyes. A gringo had a shootout with bandidos, the usual. If he had come half an hour later, half the brawlers would probably have been hit more or less fatally, and the matter would have been settled.

"Sargente Juan," the officer introduced himself when he arrived at the well.

"Hi there, Sergeant." Buck nodded quietly to him, throwing a glance towards Homero's bandits. "We are sure glad to see you."

"We had just a little argument, nothing serious," he heard Homero tell the deputy.

Juan went to Beto and examined the bruises on the boy's face. "The muchacho does not look so happy."

"Well, I guess that's just because he is naturally shy," Buck said lightly.

"Aha. What are you doing in Mexico, gringo?" the sergeant asked. He knew the answer already, of course, but for the record he had to ask the question.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I'm on my way to a little fiesta, just a little town a few days south of here," Buck explained.

The sergeant took a step backwards, pointing suspiciously to Beto. "And what of the boy? Did you plan to fight him at the fiesta?" he asked icily.

Buck was aware of how it must look to the rurales. A gringo had a beat up Mexican boy with him and was shooting it out with bandidos who wanted to collect the gambling debt. Buck stood. "Fight the boy? Sergeant, you got that wrong. I wouldn't fight that little boy-"

The sergeant punched Buck into the side. Buck automatically took a step back and put his hand on his revolver. When he heard the clicking noises, he looked up. The two rurales waiting under the tree had trained their weapons on him. Buck relaxed and, in slow motion, sat back down on the rim of the well.

"Very kind of you, señor. Thank you very much," he heard Homero in the background tell the deputy who had questioned him. "Now I'm going to get my property back. I' knew it."

Buck grimaced. Of course the rurales would believe the Mexican and would return Beto to him. What they would do with the gringo who had been involved in the shooting seemed obvious as well.

The deputy came to the well to report to his officer. "The man over there says the boy belongs to him. He is a fighter, and the gringo has stolen him from him."

The sergeant turned to the gringo. "Why did you take the boy from the peon?"

Buck pressed a hand to his injured side and shrugged slightly. "Well, I don't know. I guess I felt he deserved better than what he was getting."

Oh, one of those do-gooder types, the sergeant thought in annoyance. They usually just talked. Funny that one of them should actually do something. "And what do you plan to do with him now?" he asked.

Buck shrugged, looking a bit helpless. "I don't know that, either. I figured that maybe I would find someone or some family between here and the fiesta that would take care of him."

The sergeant began to pace in front of the well. "But maybe it's not that easy, gringo. You come to our country for the fiesta, for our liquor, for our women. Maybe that part of Mexico you like, eh?" he asked mockingly.

"Well, I guess I do," Buck said with a frown. "I guess everybody does."

"And what about the rest of it, gringo?" Juan agitatedly waved his arms and turned to Buck. "You'll be out drinking and having a good time. What about the rest of our country? What about the people who are fighting for enough to eat, who are fighting for their dignity? Maybe that part of Mexico you don't like. Maybe that part you don't want to see."

Buck nodded. "Well, maybe so. And maybe we deserve it, but don't you talk to me of dignity. What kind of dignity can you get from fighting boys and little boys like that?" he asked angrily, pointing to Beto.

Juan looked thoughtfully at Beto, and Buck suddenly had a notion. But he kept it to himself.

"It is the sickness of our times. Like the hunger that gnaws in the stomach," the rurales officer said quietly. "You take the boy, gringo. You go to your fiesta. Take the boy!" He pointed impatiently with his thumb over his shoulder. The gringo did not seem to be of the sort that usually showed up here. He seemed to be decent. The only question was whether that did him any good against Homero José.

Buck stood up without a word and went to get his horse which the stable owner had already saddled. Buck gave him a coin.

The man smiled at him. "Gracias. Hasta la vista."

Buck mounted. He tipped his hat, then rode to Beto and held out his hand. The boy hesitated for a moment, then he climbed into the saddle behind his protector. Buck was about to nudge his horse onwards but stopped again. The sergeant looked as if he wanted to tell him something.

"The day will come. The day of justice, gringo," Juan said with a sideways glance at Homero.

Buck gave the rurales a quick, noncommittal nod and rode south with Beto. The bandits were sitting on the staircase of the town hall and sullenly watched them go.

The sun had almost set, but Juan was still drinking. He had bought a bottle of tequila from the bartender, had sat on the bench outside the cantina and had kept a watchful eye on the bandidos. He had come to town to buy food for his company when the shooting had taken place. After Buck had ridden away with Beto, he had ordered his men to buy the supplies, hinting that they were in no hurry. After a glass of tequila and a chat with the bartender, the men had taken their time to load the wagon. Their horses tied to the tailgate, they finally drove up to Juan.

"Now that we are going, how long do you think it will take them to catch up with the gringo and the boy and kill them," the sergeant said in disappointment to the bartender, handed him the bottle back and climbed onto the wagon seat. "Hasta la vista." He gave the signal, and the wagon started to move. He could not wait any longer since he had to be back before the curfew.

As soon as the rurales were out of sight, Homero perked up. "Pablo, Fernando, get the horses," he ordered.

"Why go after the gringo? Why not just let them go?" one of his men asked sullenly.

"He took the boy," his boss stated doggedly.

"But he wasn't a good fighter, anyway," the man tried again.

"Yes, but the rurales are strong because the people fear them. And Homero," the bandit thumbed his chest, strutting up and down in front of his men like a rooster, "Homero is strong because the other peons fear him. I must get the boy back. And the gringo must die," he declared.

Buck stopped at the next pond. He lifted the boy from the saddle, took his canteen and filled it up again. They drank themselves, then Buck examined Beto's bruises. They were fiery red. Buck dipped his bandana into the water, wrung it out and carefully dabbed his protégé's face.

Beto pulled his head away. "It hurts."

"Put you head up, boy," Buck commanded, dabbing at the wounds more gently. This time the boy held still. Buck remembered to whom Beto owed these wounds. He scowled. "I tell you one thing. I'm getting just a little tired of the people we've been meeting lately. If they're not shooting at you, they're banging you around."

At the mention of the bandidos, Beto looked around uneasily.

"Hey." Buck touched him lightly on the shoulder, and Beto looked back at him. "Worried about your friend Homero José?" Buck asked with a smile.

"I'm not afraid," the boy told him firmly.

Buck dipped his bandana into the water again. "I'll tell you another thing. You ain't one of the friendlier people I ever met. I guess with your life, you ain't got much to be friendly about. But you do tend to try a man's patience." He lifted Beto to his feet, shaking his head. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he went to Rebel and mounted. Then he held out his hand to the boy. "Come on, Beto."

The boy came to stand beside Buck and looked earnestly up to him. "I'm not afraid," he repeated.

"Of course you're not," Buck nodded. "The way I figure it, them rurales will stay in that village until nightfall. We probably got an hour before your friend goes after us. Understand?"

"Sí." The boy nodded.

Buck shrugged. "But you ain't afraid."

Beto shook his head, but his eyes started to grow damp.

"Maybe we'll find someone who will take you. That way, you will never have to be afraid again," Buck said softly. He took the boy's hand and lifted him into the saddle behind him.

"Beto go to fiesta," the boy said suddenly while they were riding.

Buck shook his head. "No, that ain't how it's gonna be."

"Beto go to fiesta," the boy repeated stubbornly. He did not want to be left with a family he did not know. Buck had protected him from Homero, and he wanted to stay with Buck. That was the only place in the world where he felt safe.

But Buck shook his head again. "Now, I'm sure you're a good kid if you get the chance. I mean, I think you are. But I'm going to the fiesta alone. And somewhere along the line we gonna find someone who wants to take care of you."

"Nobody wants me. No one," Beto replied quietly.

Buck reined in his horse. "Now look, that ain't so. We gotta find someone."

Beto slid off the horse and walked a few steps away. "Beto go to fiesta," he repeated as stubbornly as before, his back turned to Buck.

"No," Buck replied softly.

Beto turned around to him and looked him in the eyes. "Why?"

"Why? Because what else am I gonna do?" Buck asked helplessly. Beto turned away again and lowered his head.

"I'm only a cowboy," Buck tried to explain. "I mean, I drink too much, I get into fights, I do other things. What you need- Well, a boy needs a home and a family, someone to love him. You need a mama and a papa and-" When he realised what he had said, Buck wiped his hand over his mouth. "I talk too much," he murmured and rode to his protégé. "Beto, I'm sorry. I'm sure that your mama was a beauty. And that your daddy was big and handsome, a caballero."

Beto shook his head, and now the tears fell. No one wanted him, not even Buck who had protected him from Homero.

Buck leaned down from his horse and touched Beto's shoulder. The boy swallowed his tears as best he could, straightened and looked over the landscape, still not turning around.

"And I'm certain they would be proud of you if they could see how big and strong you have grown," Buck said softly. "Beto, please forgive me. I did not mean that. Come on, mount up."

The boy let himself be lifted onto the horse. He held on to his protector and wept into Buck's shirt. After a while, he fell asleep.

Buck continued south, towards the fiesta. Shortly after nightfall he came to a small town. He fastened the reins at the hitching rack in front of the cantina, lifted Beto from the saddle and went with him into the building. The boy ignored him as much as he could. If he had known where to go, he would have run away. But since he had no relatives, let alone friends, he had to stay with the man who was willing to protect him but did not want him any more than everyone else did.

Buck motioned for the boy to sit down at a table and went to the counter. "Can we have something to eat?" he asked the bartender.

The man nodded. "Sí, señor."

"Then I'd like to speak with one of your leading citizens. Maybe you can help me there. Wouldn't be to your disadvantage," Buck continued with a sideways glance at Beto. When the barkeeper nodded again, Buck sat down at the table beside his protégé. The boy glanced at him with teary eyes, then lowered his head again. A moment later the bartender brought them plates and cutlery. Buck handed him some coins.

"Gracias", the bartender said and was about to leave the table.

"Ah, wait a minute," Buck stopped him. The man turned back to him. "That other-"

"I'm working on it," the bartender said, holding out his hand.

It took Buck a moment before he realised what the man was waiting for. "Oh. Here." He fished another coin from his pocket and handed it over. The bartender nodded his thanks, then disappeared behind his counter. Buck poured himself a glass of tequila and looked at Beto who scowled at the table.

"Now, you ain't doing anybody any good with that pouting," Buck said firmly, took the spoon and put it into Beto's hand. "Eat!"

The boy swept his plate from the table. Buck looked silently from the broken plate to Beto, then he calmly began to eat. He noticed the absolute surprise on Beto's face before the boy remembered to hide his thoughts and feelings behind a mask of indifference.

When Buck had finished his meal, a man approached him who was dressed all in white. "Señor? The bartender say you want to see me?"

Buck looked up in relief. "Ah, you speak English. Good." He shook hands with the man. "Mucho gusto, señor."

"Mucho gusto," nodded the other.

Buck stood up. "I'm looking for the town's leading citizen."

The man straightened his shirt, smiling proudly. "I am the tanner."

"And I'm a cowboy" Buck answered. He took the man's arm. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Yes. Thank you, señor," the tanner nodded and followed Buck to the bar. Buck raised two fingers. The barkeeper filled two glasses and put them on the counter in front of them.

"It's about this boy," Buck said, pointing to his protégé who was watching them sullenly from the table. "I'm looking for someone to take care of him."

"Oh yeah?" the man asked, still smiling.

Buck nodded. "He needs a home. He used to be a fighter, I got him out of there, but I can't- I mean, me being a cowboy going to a fiesta- Well, you understand, yes?"

The tanner suddenly made a sour face, drank up quickly and resolutely put his glass down. "I'm sorry, señor." The next moment he was out of the door. You are a muy rico gringo, the tanner thought angrily. Why should we take and feed a boy you no longer want?

Buck sullenly watched the man go. At the sound of chairs scraping of the the wooden floor, he looked to the other side of the cantina. A few men were walking towards the door, but one of them approached him. He was slender, about as tall as Buck and wore a chequered shirt. Buck recognised him immediately. It was the American who had bet against Homero.

"Hey, saddle tramp," the man smiled.

"Hey, cowboy," Buck greeted him, returning the smile. "I thought you was heading home."

"You mean north to the border?" The gringo shook his head. "No. My home is right here. The boys and I work on a big ranch outside of town." Buck wordlessly sipped his tequila. The man nodded in the direction of Beto. "Don't tell me Homero sold you him."

"Well- er- he did not sell him. Not exactly," Buck admitted reluctantly.

"So you just took him, then?" the man asked, a respectful look suddenly in his eyes.

Buck nodded. "That's more like it. Yeah."

The other smiled a little. "Homero José is a bad character. I would watch my back if I were you." He nodded goodbye to Buck and left.

Buck watched him go, a queasy feeling developing in his stomach. The man would not help him. He had not even told him his name. But Buck figured he should be grateful for the warning. And for the implied promise that the man would not turn against him. Buck sighed. He could not ask for more. It was his problem. He went back to the table. "Well, come on," he told Beto, drank up his glass and waited for the boy to move. Beto did not stir. "Boy, if it's not too much trouble, I think it's time to leave," Buck repeated impatiently and walked to the door. The boy followed him a moment later.

In the background, in the shadow of the buildings, the bandits watched Buck and Beto leave town. Homero grinned. "Now it won't be long before we catch them."

Buck rode out of town on a side path that led through rocky terrain. Since he did not know this area, he was forced to follow the path. Beto had fallen asleep again. A few miles outside of town the path led onto a wide road. Buck had not ridden three steps on it when suddenly shots were fired at him. Rebel whinnied in alarm. Buck pulled his horse to the ground, jumped out of the saddle and sought cover with Beto among the rock formation that was jutting out of the flatlands floor some sixty or seventy feet. Spying Rebel racing down the road unhurt, Buck focused on their attackers. He took careful aim, fired twice, and two men fell off their horses. The other three beat a hasty retreat.

Buck waited a moment to see if their attackers would find their courage again and returned. When the hoofbeat kept going away from them, he turned to Beto. "Come on. We have to get away from here," he whispered, took the boy by the hand and led him up the rocks. Finally they stopped. Beto sank down onto a boulder in exhaustion. Buck leaned his arms on the boulder and looked at the boy resignedly. "You're a real bundle of joy, ain't you. A man is going out for a fiesta. And where does he end up? Without his horse, hiding in some rocks with a kid that hates his guts and three Mexicans out there who wanna kill him."

With a sigh Buck sat down on the rocks beside Beto to catch his breath. After a while he realised that the boy was asleep. Buck took him in his arms and carried him to a sheltered spot which was relatively flat and covered with some soil and moss. Beto woke when Buck put him down on the ground, looking up questioningly.

"Stay here and don't move from this spot," Buck whispered. "I'm going to scout the area so that those bandidos won't surprise us again." He was about to leave when Beto grasped his arm. Buck looked back. The boy regarded him anxiously. Buck gently stroked the boy's hair and wiped a tear off Beto's cheek. "No need to be afraid. I've done this before, you know. I'll be back. I promise."

Buck waited patiently. Beto finally let go of his arm, and Buck went to see where the bandits had settled for the night. When he found them, he cursed under his breath. They had captured Rebel. It was too risky to try and steal the horse back. If that went wrong, Beto would be at the bandits' mercy. This made the situation even trickier. He had to find water the next day as soon as possible. Buck retreated. There was nothing he could do at the moment, but at least he knew now where Homero wa spending the night.

Beto woke again when he heard Buck come back. His protector lay down beside him. The boy moved as close to him as he dared. Although the rocks were still giving off some heat, the air had become too cold for comfort. Buck put his arm around Beto, pulled him close and warmed him.

A few hours later Buck woke his protégé. "Beto, come on. We got three or maybe four hours till sunrise. It ain't much of a chance, but it's all we got." He pulled the boy to his feet. Drowsily they stumbled through the rocks.

At dawn Buck began to doubt whether they would manage to escape the bandits. He took off his hat and worriedly ran his hand through his hair. "I should have left things alone. This way, you would still have a chance of living, no matter how bad they treated you. The way things are, you might have liked that better," he muttered dejectedly. They stopped for a moment to catch their breath. Buck turned around to look at the little fighter, then went on: "But no. No. They had no right to treat you like they did. And no one can allow himself to be treated that way. Not even if it takes dying to change it, because it just ain't right. And even if you do take dying, you just have to hope that some day it's worth it. That some day people will stop being so low down mean. Okay?" he asked the boy.

However, Beto did not understand a word. He was tired, thirsty and could only think of putting one foot in front of the other so that he would not be a burden to Buck. Dawn had come two hours ago. The sun beat down on him, making him sweat, but they still had not found any water. He followed Buck down a rock, but his legs felt like rubber. He stumbled, took a fall, rolled down the slope and lay still. Buck lifted him onto his back. "It's all right, boy. It's all right."

"Stop," Homero barked at his men. At the first rays of light he had ridden with his two cronies to the spot where they had ambushed Buck the evening before. They looked around in confusion.

"Where is the boy?" one of the bandits finally asked.

His companion shrugged. "Here is the spot where they were yesterday. But today they are not here."

"Estúpido. I don't want to know where they are not," Homero snapped. "I want to know where they are. You were supposed to watch last night."

The man looked at him apologetically. "I'm sorry."

That was all? "You better pick up their tracks right away," Homero exclaimed impatiently.

"Right," the man replied meekly and quickly spurred his horse on, glad to get away from Homero's his foul mood.

"Estúpido", his boss shouted again before following him at a more sedate pace.

Buck carried Beto through the midday heat. In the distance he spotted some trees. He headed for it, because where there were trees, there was shade. And water. He wondered if it had been a mistake to leave Mano at home. But Mano was not as strong as Buck, and even Buck could not carry two people through the desert. He would have been forced to leave Mano behind and come back for him later. On the other hand, had Mano been with him, they could have snatched the bandits' horses last night and would not need to walk to walk through the desert at all. But that was not right, either, Buck thought. Mano was wanted by the rurales. Buck remembered his premonition. If he had taken Mano with him, his brother-in-law would have already been caught in Nogales. The events would probably still have unfolded like that, except that Mano would not have survived them. Buck gasped. If he did not get something to drink soon, he would not make it, either. Compared with boys his age, Beto was a lightweight, but it was still exhausting business to carry him through the heat. Stars began to dance in front of Buck's eyes. A big, dark spot obscured his vision. Buck stumbled and fell to his knees. He lowered his head and tried to get back to his feet, but his knees buckled, and he fell to the ground again. Breathing heavily, Buck squatted down to catch his breath. His vision cleared gradually. Buck looked up. A man was standing before him, leaning on a scythe. Buck blinked, turned his head away and looked back again.

"Buenos días, señor," the man greeted him quietly. "Welcome to my farm."

Panting, Buck nodded a greeting in return. He should not have done that, he realised a moment later. The world began to spin, and he fell face down into the sand. The boy slid off his back.

The man bent down to him. "Come, señor. Behind the trees is the river." He took Buck by the arm, helped him to his feet and led him to the water. Buck sat down in the middle of the stream. He took off his hat, poured the cool water over his head and drank his fill. The farmer meanwhile carried Beto to the water. Buck took the boy from him, dunked Beto up to his neck into the river and patted the boy's cheek. After a few minutes Beto opened his eyes. He saw Buck who gave him a worried look. Beto gazed around in confusion. He must have fallen asleep. The last thing he remembered were the rocks he had stumbled through. Then he noticed that he was up to his neck in water. And he could not swim. Panic flooding him, Beto began to struggle. Buck held him tighter, soothingly stroking his back and making shushing noises. The boy finally calmed down. He rested his head on Buck's chest and closed his eyes again. When he noticed that Buck was holding his water-filled hat to his lips, he swallowed obediently.

Buck sighed in relief. The worst seemed to be over. They had survived the desert. He looked up at the farmer who gave him a surprised look. "I'm Buck Cannon," Buck introduced himself, hoping that the man understood him. Then he remembered that the farmer had greeted him in English. There would probably be no major communication problems.

"I'm Jorge Martinez," the Mexican answered. "I was just going home to have lunch with my wife and my children. May I invite you, señor?"

"Oh, thank you," Buck said. "We'll be more than glad to accept." He took Beto by the hand and followed the farmer. It took them ten minutes to reach the house, and in that time their clothes had dried. Buck looked around the premises. A few chickens were picking seeds on the path that led to the house. Behind it began a sugarcane field.

Señora Martinez was just laying the table when her husband came in with Buck and Beto.

"Wife," said the farmer, "put two more plates on the table. We have visitors."

"Oh." Señora Martinez met them at the door and smilingly shook their hands. "Take a seat. - Children, lunch is ready. And bring two more chairs," she then called in Spanish.

Four children came rushing in to greet the guests. Señor Martinez sat down at the upper end of the table. Buck was seated beside him. Beto got to sit at the lower end. When the children had taken their seats as well, Señor Martinez prayed, then they began to eat. Buck covertly observed the children. They all looked healthy, well-fed and happy. None showed bruises like Beto. The farmer noticed Buck's scrutiny and looked at him questioningly.

Buck took his time to formulate his answer. "I'm ranch hand on the High Chaparral, my brother's ranch in Arizona," he began slowly. "I came to Mexico for a fiesta, but in Nogales I met this little fighter here. I just could not bear to see grown men watch children beating each other to death. And betting on who will go down first. So I took him with me to find him a family, someone to take care of him and to love him. The crux of the matter is that Homero - this is the man who made Beto fight - followed us. Last night he ambushed us, got our horse, and I had no choice but to cross the desert to escape him." Buck fell silent. Señor Martinez, too, needed some time to digest what he had heard.

The eldest girl broke the silence. "What's your name?" she asked Beto.

"Beto," the boy replied tersely between bites.

"But Beto's just a nickname," the girl insisted. "Does that mean you are called Herberto, Alberto, Roberto...?"

Beto shrugged. "I don't know."

"Children, let Beto alone. Let him have his food," Señora Martinez admonished her kids, bringing another stack of tortillas from the kitchen.

"Ma'am, we're much obliged to you," Buck thanked her when she came to him with the plate.

Señor Martinez repeatedly threw Buck puzzled looks. "You help a boy like Beto?" he finally asked. "You're an Americano."

Buck shrugged, giving his host a smile. "Well, I don't know what that means. There are Americanos and there are Americanos. Just like there are Mexicanos and there are Mexicanos."

The farmer nodded and smiled himself. "I wonder what sort of man you really are."

Buck ran a hand through his hair in embarrassment. "I'm nothing. I'm just a cowboy. And a sometime fiesta-goer," he grinned, turning back to his corn husk.

The farmer smiled again, let it be and continued eating as well.

The noise made Buck paused. It was a sound he had been waiting for. He stood up, drew his revolver and went to the window beside the door. There he saw the three bandidos. He looked at the farmer seriously. Señor Martinez came to the window, putting a hand on Buck's revolver. "Please, señor, let me talk to them."

Buck hesitated. "Well, Mr. Martinez-"

"There's my wife and children to think about," the farmer interrupted him.

Buck let his gaze travel over the family, then he nodded. "All right. Try,"

The farmer went to the little altar that was hanging on the wall behind the dining table. He lit a candle, crossed himself and said a short prayer. Then he put on his hat, opened the door and walked resolutely towards the men. Buck glanced at Beto whose face showed no emotion, then he refocused his attention to the goings-on outside. Señor Martinez spoke to Homero. It was a short conversation. After a moment the farmer returned to his house. He stepped through the door, took off his hat and lowered his eyes in embarrassment. His youngest daughter was playing with her cup. She turned away from the adults and began to sing quietly to herself to hide her fear.

"Elena, silencio," her father commanded. The girl immediately fell silent.

"Well?" Buck asked tersely.

"They say they want you and the boy," the farmer admitted. "Or they will burn the house."

Buck looked at Beto, then out towards the bandits, then at Señor Martinez. "What did you tell them?" he asked neutrally.

"I-" Señor Marinez lowered his head in shame. After a moment he pulled himself together and looked back up. "I told them they could have you," he said flatly.

Buck nodded. "Well, then we'll go outside." He waved to Beto. The boy paled, but he bravely came to him. Buck put a reassuring arm around Beto's shoulders, handing Señor Martinez his revolver. "What happens next is up to you," he said calmly.

The farmer licked suddenly dry lips and gestured uncertainly with the revolver. Opening the door, Buck stepped out first. Homero and his two bandits laughed out loud when they saw the approaching trio. The farmer herded the gringo to them like an ox. And Beto was walking beside him, tame as a puppy.

"I have brought them for you," the farmer said.

Homero leaned on his horse. "Good. I told you, gringo, in the end you would die. I told you, I told you, eh?" he grinned at Buck.

Buck half buried his hands in his pockets. "You are truly a man of determination. I have to admire you for that," he said with mock sincerety.

"Do you think I care what you think, you stinking gringo?" Homero roared.

Buck closed his eyes and restrained himself. "Beto, come here," he heard Homer command. Beto looked at his protector, but Buck did not move.

"Hey, come here, you filthy little beggar," Homero snarled again.

Beto went to him. Homero backhanded him across the cheek so hard that Beto stumbled backwards and fell into the sugar cane. The farmer looked up angrily. That was no way to treat a child.

"Do you want to know what I really think?" Homero asked Buck scornfully. "I'm gonna burn this farmer's house to the ground anyway. And his boys are gonna be fighting for me."

"But señor, what have I done to you?" Señor Martinez spoke up plaintively, taking a step towards Homero.

The boss of the bandidos booted the farmer in the belly. Señor Martinez dropped to the ground and fired. Homero spun around on his axis, then fell with a groan to the ground. His two cronies wheeled their horses around and absconded as quickly as their mounts would run. Señor Martinez sent a few bullets after them, then looked towards Homero. The bandit lay where he ahd fallen and did not move. The farmer remained sitting on the ground, staring at the bandit in shock. Buck helped the farmer to the feet, took his revolver back and hosltered it, then gave Señor Martinez a once-over. The man stood on wobbly legs and looked very pale. "Yes, it's a terrible thing to have to kill a man," Buck said softly.

"Christ taught us how to live," the farmer remarked grimly. He looked towards the house where the kids huddled around their mother. "How do I teach this my children in these times?"

Buck sighed. "Well, I guess a man has to try to do the best he can. And just let things work themselves out."

"Madre de Dios." Señor Martinez looked up at the sky as if he wanted to apologise to the Mother of God. "You are probably right."

Buck nodded, letting out a sharp whistle. They heard a curse in the distance, then hoofbeat coming closer. Rebel had thrown off his riders and came to them. Buck tied his horse to the fence to let it graze. They were about to go back into the house when Buck threw the farmer a thoughtful look. "Señor Martinez," he began hesitantly. "Do you perhaps need another son?"

The farmer looked at his guest, speechless for a moment. Then he glanced at the rest of the family. Wife and children seemed to have no objections. "It would be a joy to take Beto in," he said.

Buck watched Beto to see if the boy agreed, but his protégé showed no emotion. "Well, then it's settled," Buck decided. He untied Rebel and took the reins. Fishing his remaining coins out of his pockets, he held them out to his host. "Señor Martinez, here."

"No, no. No." The farmer pushed Buck's hand back. "We have had nine children. Four of them have died of the stomach, and then our oldest son died of a scorpion bite when he was six," he said, looking at his foster son. "Beto will make a good son. He will have brothers and sisters. He will be loved. He will work hard, but then, what is a son for if not to help his father?" he smiled.

"Yes." Buck nodded. He was about to mount but stopped when Beto approached him. Buck put his hands on the boy's shoulders and smiled at him. "Well, boy, we made it. Just like I said we would. Well, I still got myself a fiesta to go to if I want. And you got yourself a home, someone to look after you. And you won't have to be afraid no more. Are you happy?"

Beto looked at him silently. Buck shook his head, bent down to the boy and took Beto's face in his hands. "Oh boy, like I said, you sure ain't one of the friendlier people I've met." He turned and took the reins. "But still, I like you," he said as he mounted.

Beto took another step just as Buck was nudging Rebel forward. "Buck." Buck reined his horse in again. He looked back at Beto and noticed the tears in the boy's eyes. "Yo te quiero mucho," Beto said, looking pleadingly at Buck.

"He says he loves you very much," Señor Martinez translated. He put an arm around Beto's shoulders, and Beto began to cry in earnest.

Buck blinked. He, too, had damp eyes. He raised a hand in parting, turned his horse around and rode away. The Martinez children waved goodbye, but Buck did not look back again. He hoped fervently that he had made the right decision and that Beto would be safe with the Martinez family.

A few miles outside Nogales Buck came across the rurales again.

"You are still alive, gringo?" Juan asked, and Buck thought he could detect the hint of a smile on the sergeant's face.

Buck shrugged and grinned back. "As you can see. And Beto is alive, too. But I have to tell you that Homero José is dead."

"And you shot him," the sergeant concluded immediately. "A gringo who shoots a Mexican is not very welcome here."

Buck shook his head. "I didn't shoot him. Beto's father killed Homero."

"You found the boy's parents?" Juan asked in amazement.

Buck shook his head again. "Not exactly. I have more or less accidentally found foster parents for him in the village behind the desert. You see, Homero wanted to shoot Señor Martinez and let the farmer's boys fight for him. And since Señor Martinez had my revolver in his hand, anyway-" Buck broke off when he saw the uncomprehending faces and tried another explanation. "Homero did not want to keep his promise to leave the family alone if Señor Martinez brought us to him, so Señor Martinez had to shoot Homero."

"Oh. Then everything is all right," the sergeant said, waving his hand dismissively. "A man like Señor Martinez is a credible witness in any case. And if he confirms your statement, there is no reason for further investigation."

"You know the family?" Buck asked in surprise.

Juan nodded. "Yes. I do not know all the people in my district personally, but Señor Martinez is the village elder, the mayor."

"Oh." Buck whistled through his teeth. "What a lucky shot. But still, may I ask you to keep an eye on Beto? The bandits who have gotten rid of their boss might try to avenge him."

"Count on it," the sergeant answered. "We will station a few more men in the village. That should be enough."

Buck let out a grateful sigh. "My thanks. I am honestly relieved." He dismounted and walked a few steps to the side. The sergeant followed him. Remembering his suspicion, Buck threw Juan a cautious look. "You've been a fighter yourself when you were a child, am I right?"

"That's none of your business," the sergeant said gruffly.

Buck shrugged. "Maybe not. But I thought since I helped Beto, maybe you would do me a favour. One hand washes the other, as the saying goes."

"What do you want?" The sergeant asked icily. A gringo did nothing without ulterior motives, he thought in disappointment.

"Well, I have a friend. A very good friend," Buck began slowly.

"What do I care about your friends?" Juan asked, sounding bored, and looked off to the side.

"I really don't like to beg, but this is important," Buck said sharply. When the sergeant finally faced him again, he continued. "Now, my friend accidentally shot a rurales officer a few years ago and is wanted in Mexico. I would be most grateful if you could see to it that his poster disappears."

The sergeant made a derisive face. "I bet you fought for the South in the Civil War. Would you help a Yankee who killed a man of your unit?"

"I told you it was an accident," Buck retorted angrily.

"Answer my question, gringo!"

"That depends on the circumstances." Buck went back to Rebel and took the reins. A few months ago he had done just that. He had put a man of his unit into jail because said man had wanted to overthrow the legitimate Yankee government. And a few years back he had even shot his captain to help a Yankee and a Mexican. Granted, one was his brother and the other his best friend, but the events had hurt him nevertheless. Buck realised he was about to lose his temper. He quickly mounted his horse.

Juan thoughtfully chewed his lower lip as he followed Buck back to the horses. He had seen a look on the other's face that he probably had not been meant to see. "Gringo," he called just as Buck was about to ride off. Buck reined his horse in and gazed back over his shoulder. "Who is your friend?"

"Manolito Montoya."

Juan stared at the black-clad rider in astonishment. And suddenly he recognised him. "Then you are Buck Cannon?" he asked.

"Does it matter?" Buck shot back.

"The man who tangled with bandidos like El Lobo and Griswald and won?"

"Yes." Buck nodded. "But I had a little help. Guess who." He spurred his horse on and rode off.

Juan watched him go, frowning deeply. The story of Don Sebastian's siege came to his mind. From what the Montoya folks told, Buck had dispatched the bandidos single-handedly. So far, he had always dismissed it as a tall tale. But why should Mexicans heap so much praise on a gringo if there was not a spark of truth in it? He decided to look into the matter.

Two days later Buck arrived at the High Chaparral. He unsaddled his horse and walked with bowed head towards the house. Victoria, John and Mano were having dinner.

Big John looked up when he heard the door swing open. A smile crossed his face. "Hey, Buck."

Manolito also looked up. "Hombre," he said in surprise.

"I didn't expect you for another week or so," Big John spoke up again.

"Well, John." Buck slowly came to the table, his left hand buried in his pocket. Putting his right hand on the back of his chair, he cleared his throat. "Honestly, I- uh- I didn't expect me myself," he mumbled.

"Hello, Buck," Victoria chimed in.

Buck forced a smile. "Victoria," he nodded to her.

His sister-in-law got up. "I'll get you a plate."

"Thanks, that's nice," Buck said quietly and watched her disappeared into the kitchen.

"Hey, Buck," Mano said excitedly and walked over to his best friend. "Tell me everything about the fiesta."

Buck looked down. "Well, old friend, it was a-"

"Yes?" Mano asked expectantly.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I never made it." Buck looked at his brother-in-law apologetically.

"You never made the fiesta?" Manolito asked in amazement.

Buck shrugged. "That's sort of the way it was," he said dejectedly.

"Something happened?" Big John asked.

Buck gave his brother a blank look. "No. Nothing special," he answered, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Hm." Mano threw the rancher an angry look. If John had kept his mouth shut, Buck would have forgot about him and would have told Mano what had happened.

Buck lowered his head and looked at his hands. He remembered that his brother's wife did not like it when he sat down to table unwashed. "I- I think I'd better get cleaned up before Victoria is back," he mumbled and headed for the stairs.

"Buck," Big John called after him. His brother stopped, looking back apprehensively. John smiled at him. "Welcome home."

Buck nodded in relief. "Thank you, brother John." He took off his hat, nodded to John again and went up the stairs. "Thank you."

Manolito ran after his best friend, covertly letting out a sigh of relief. Big John had just shown amazing tact.

Mano stopped in the doorway of Buck's room and gave his brother-in-law a once-over. "Compadre, you look disappointed," he finally stated.

Buck did not answer. He had washed his hands and face, had taken the towel and had gone to the window, staring out with unseeing eyes. Mano went to his best friend. "This is not just about the fiesta. I know you, amigo. What happened?" He took Buck by the shoulders, turned him around and worriedly looked him in the eyes.

His friend lowered his head, heaving a sigh. "There was this boy, Beto. He was a fighter in the cantina where I wanted to spend the night on my way south," he began quietly.

"Oh, I see," Mano interrupted his friend with a smile. "You bought him and then had no more money for the fiesta. So you came back, right?"

Buck shook his head, still not looking up. "Not quite. I had to shoot it out with his owner to free him. Then we continued south. I hoped to find him a family, a home. But Homero and his bandits followed us. We escaped through the desert. I finally found a good family for Beto, but his foster father Señor Martinez had to shoot Homero. Well." Buck let out another sigh. "Now the boy at least has a home and doesn't have to be afraid that the bandits'll come back one day."

Manolito sucked in a shocked breath. His hand on Buck's shoulder tightened. Buck had once again taken on a bunch of bandits. Without backing, without a single thought of how Mano would feel if he had to bury his best friend.

"He was a lot like you," Buck murmured. Maybe that was not apparent at first glance, but there were quite a few parallels. Beto so far had had no childhood. Granted, Mano had never been beaten by his parents; he had been forced to grow up way too fast in other ways. No matter how much Don Sebastian loved his son, he had put so much pressure on Mano with his expectations that Manolito had finally seen no other way than to leave. Mano had sought friends, but like Beto he had only found bandits who had used him shamelessly and had no compunction of killing him as soon as he stopped being useful. Buck thought of Lobo and Griswald. Those had been the worst. But others he had met - such as Romero, Nickanora or Santos - had been no better. Only at the High Chaparral had Mano found real friends, a family who stood by him. In good as well as in bad times.

And of course, both Mano and Beto had courage. They always put up a brave front, no matter how bad things looked. Buck could not help but admire them for that. Knowing what to look for, Buck had seen Mano afraid on occasion, just like he had seen the fear in Beto's eyes. But that only compelled him to protect them and prove his loyalty to them. And the friendship he received in return he would not trade for anything.

After a moment Buck pulled himself together. He looked up and saw Manolito regarding him in silence, at a loss for an answer. Buck smiled at his best friend. "Let's go back downstairs. Dinner is getting cold."

The next day Mano did not let his best friend out of his sight. When Buck went to Saddleblanket's grave, Mano approached him hesitantly. Buck put a hand on his best friend's shoulder as a sign that Mano was welcome. For a while they stood silently side by side, looking at the simple wooden cross.

"What are you thinking, amigo?" Mano finally asked.

Buck wordlessly shook his head. He could not help thinking a few unkind thoughts. He could not have brought Beto to the ranch. Saddleblanket had not been accepted. And if Buck had not insisted on it, Big John would not have taken Mano in, either – all those years ago when they had gone to see Don Sebastian to form an alliance against Apache raids and John had come home with a wife. But when John himself had brought a half-blood to the ranch – Wind –, all had been immediately smitten by the boy. It did not seem fair. Then Buck shrugged inwardly, putting the hurt aside. He was not the boss around here. And honestly, Beto would have been too lonely on the High Chaparral, Buck admitted to himself. The boy needed siblings with whom he could grow up. And later, when he started to become courisous about girls, the ranch was not the right place, either, so far off the beaten track. Buck thought of Carlos who had given them so much trouble until he had been accepted into a Mexican family in Tucson. With Blue it had been different. Blue had been almost twenty when they had moved here.

Mano stayed close to Buck during the next days, hoping that his best friend would talk to him. But Buck kept mum. After two weeks he seemed to have come to terms with whatever had happened and was almost his old self again, although he did not laugh as readily.

Three months later a letter arrived from Mexico. It was addressed to Buck. Big John handed his brother the letter with a questioning look. But Buck ignored him and his look and disappeared with the letter into his room. He sat on his bed, examining the envelop from all sides before he opened it. The letter looked very official. "Prefecture of Nogales" it said in the letterhead. Buck hoped it was not sad news. Perhaps the bandits had not let themselves be deterred by the Rurales? Maybe they had paid the Martinez family a visit and had taken Beto back? But the letter was too short for that. It consisted of only two sentences. As Buck read them, a smile crept over his face. It soon blossomed into a full-blown grin. Buck let out a cry of joy. "YEEEHAAW!"

Manolito had just sat down with John and Victoria for dinner. "Do you know what stung him?" he asked the rancher couple.

"He got a letter," Big John informed him.

"And?" Mano asked eagerly. "What does it say?"

His brother-in-law shrugged. "Probably nothing bad," he said wryly.

Buck rushed down the stairs. "Mano, let's ride to Tucson. Drinks are on me."

Manolito looked up in surprise. "Right now?"

Buck nodded. "Of course right now. The sooner we ride, the longer the evening is gonna be."

Mano began to grin. "There is that, compadre. Excuse us, hermanita," he called over his shoulder to Victoria, then followed his best friend.

Big John looked at his wife, sullenly shaking his head. "He mopes for three months, and now he wants to celebrate."

Victoria smiled. "You're just mad because Buck didn't tell you what the letter is about. I'm sure we will find out tomorrow. If not from Buck, then from Manolito."

The ranch hands were sitting in front of their bunkhouse, having dinner as well. Ira suddenly looked up in surprise and elbowed his neighbour. "Hey, look. Where are they going?"

Craning their necks, the hands watched Buck and Mano hastily saddle their horses. Buck waved to them. "Boys, let's go to Tucson. Drinks are on me."

He did not have to invite them twice. The men were ready to leave in an instant.

It was a merry group that rode to Tucson. Mano noticed that Buck's sadness had apparently affected all of them. For weeks they had not had so much fun.

"Hey Buck, what's gotten into you?" Sam summarised the general astonishment.

Buck shrugged. "I'm just happy," he beamed at the foreman.

"He got a letter," Mano explained.

"Oho." The men hooted. Letters with good news were rare. Most of them had not received a single letter in their lives. Just a summons to a court hearing when they had gone overboard with celebrating and had done too much damage. But those letters did not count.

"And what does it say?" everybody wanted to know.

Manolito shrugged. "No idea. Buck has not told me yet."

"Maybe Blue sent him a portrait," Joe quipped.

Ira remembered the cartoon Blue had drawn of Pedro. He shook his head. "That would be something to laugh for us, not so much for him, I guess."

"Can't you celebrate without knowing the reason?" Buck interjected with a grin.

"Now, don't keep us in suspense," grumbled Reno.

"I'll tell you tomorrow," Buck promised the ranch hands. "And then you can celebrate again, if you like."

When they realised that Buck would say no more, the men finally settled for this proposal.

In Tucson they went from saloon to saloon, and Buck always gave the first round. At midnight they rode back to the ranch.

When he finally lay in bed, sleep eluded Manolito. After an hour of restless turning, he sighed, put on his bathrobe and slipped into Buck's room. The letter lay on the table. Mano took it and went with it to the window. The full moon brightened the room just enough that he could decipher the writing. "Your friend is off the hook. He is no longer wanted. Signed: Sargente Juan."

Mano frowned. Such secrecy for this? He did not understand a word. Suddenly, a heavy hand descended on his shoulder from behind. Manolito froze. When he had recovered from his shock, he slowly turned around. Buck looked at him sleepily and half annoyed. Mano handed the letter back with an apologetic half-smile. Buck read the two sentences again. His expression mellowed. "The friend the sergeant mentions is you," he said quietly.

Manolito cocked his head, looking quizzically at his brother-in-law, and Buck told him the rest: how the rurales had interrupted his shootout with Homero; how Buck had suspected that the sergeant had been a fighter as a child; how they had met again in the end and how Buck had asked Juan for a favour - to waive all charges against Mano. "But since I don't know which way the sergeant went about it - whether officially or unofficially - I prefer to keep this quiet," Buck concluded his report.

Manolito looked dazed. His wanted poster did not exist any more? He could ride into Mexico without having to fear that the rurales might catch him? He could not quite believe it yet.

"Yo te quiero mucho tambien," Buck smiled at his friend.

"What?" Manolito asked in confusion.

"Yo te quiero mucho. That's what Beto told me when we said goodbye," Buck explained. "You looked like you were going to say the same thing."

Mano smiled. "I could not have put it better." Then his face fell. He realised that Big John had almost been correct in his assumption. If were not for Mano, Buck would probably not have come back. He would have travelled the land with Beto. Perhaps he would have taken a job somewhere to be able to send the boy to school, for two or three years at least. Mano realised that Buck had come to a crossroad and that Buck had chosen the High Chaparral. "I'm sorry, compadre," he said gloomily.

Buck seemed to understand what he meant. He squeezed his best friend's shoulder and looked at him openly. "It's all right, Mano. It was the best solution all around."

Manolito nodded. Tomorrow they would celebrate up a storm, he decided, so that Buck would forget his sadness.


End file.
